


Up-Up and Away

by redcigar



Series: Jet Smoke and Dragon Fire [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dragon Stiles, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Humour, M/M, Magical Claudia Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3811138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcigar/pseuds/redcigar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek wants to grab him by those arms and demand what’s going on and what’s wrong and can you let me help you. But then sometimes he underestimates Stiles, and they’re slumped down on the fold-out bed in the Stilinski living room – the kitchen light still on, the Sheriff’s bedroom door ajar, and a shotgun resting lovingly against the staircase banister – and Stiles rolls over and puts his face right into the crook of Derek’s neck.</p><p>“Something’s wrong,” he mutters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up-Up and Away

Half a year passes in Beacon Hills. Six months of blissful, peaceful, and every other synonym in Scott’s vocabulary rotation passes where _absolutely nothing happens_. Considering the pack now consists of several werewolves, a banshee, a dragon, a Head Nurse and the Sheriff – Derek’s chalking it up as a win.

 

Until winter.

 

The winter is pretty mild, actually, and Derek and Stiles spend most of their spare time curled up together in a scaly, furry pile, which – as the season progresses – becomes increasingly invaded by the rest of the pack. Derek remembers waking up at one point, fully shifted, with Isaac’s right foot jammed into his muzzle and the smell of toe-jam jerking him unpleasantly out of a deep sleep. The noise Isaac makes when Derek jabs him with a claw causes the rest of the pack to jump to attention, but Stiles just heaves one great sigh and rolls over onto his stomach, scales gleaming in the artificial light of the portable heater.

 

And that’s the start of the whole other thing –

 

The winter is… weird. For Stiles.

 

The Sheriff doesn’t appear to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t mention it, even when he catches Derek watching after Stiles worriedly whenever the teenager shifts uncomfortably or makes a pained noise whenever he stretches. But that’s the thing. Stiles _is_ in pain. Mostly he shrugs it off, or complains about lacrosse practice, or Isaac getting too rough-and-tumble during pack training, or _Erica_ , or even Scott, and sometimes, hell, even a baleful accusing glare at Allison from time to time –

 

But Derek catches him alone in the bathroom one night and – no, wait, that sounds wrong. Derek _totally_ and _innocently_ passes the _slightly open bathroom door_ one night during his highly supervised stays over in the Stilinski household. And. Well. Stiles just happens to be coming out of the shower, and Derek _sees_. Not that he’s surprised, he could smell the sores on Stiles a mile away, and he’s pretty sure everyone else can do, save the Sheriff.

 

Welts, red and purple and blue all up and down Stiles’ back and down the backs of his arms, which he hides under flannel sleeves and lopsided grins.

 

Derek wants to grab him by those arms and demand _what’s going on_ and _what’s wrong_ and _can you let me help you_. But then sometimes he underestimates Stiles, and they’re slumped down on the fold-out bed in the Stilinski living room – the kitchen light still on, the Sheriff’s bedroom door ajar, and a shotgun resting lovingly against the staircase banister – and Stiles rolls over and puts his face right into the crook of Derek’s neck.

 

“Something’s wrong,” he mutters.

 

Derek’s fingers claw, and grip, and he clenches them into a fist before hauling Stiles closer and burying them into the blankets, disappearing from the blaring kitchen light and Stiles’ bright, worried eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Deaton looks at Stiles’ back, looks at Derek, looks at the Sheriff, and shrugs.

 

“He did _not_ just--” Stiles begins hotly, but the Sheriff restrains him with a subtle whack to the head.

 

“What do you mean _you don’t know_ ,” Derek says instead with his Voice of Patience.

 

“Derek, I can tell you with all certainty that the number of dragons I’ve dealt with in my career is firmly restricted to the one sitting on that chair,” Deaton says smoothly, “Clearly Mrs. Stilinski was very well disguised.” This last comment comes out very respectfully, and the Sheriff ducks his head.

 

“As for Stiles, well. I could chalk it up to adolescence, like with the fire spitting, or it could be hives from a spider bite. I’m afraid it’s really not within my experience to say.”

 

“You can’t tell if the sores are magical or not?” Stiles demands.

 

“They don’t appear to be moving, glowing, or taking large chunks of your flesh with them, so the answer is no.”

 

The Sheriff goes white. “Chunks of flesh?”

 

“Arizona.” Deaton replies calmly, as if that explains it. Derek pulls up a mental map and strikes Arizona off the list.

 

“So what do we do then?” Derek asks, wincing even as Stiles shifts and the red tortured skin glistens under the shitty veterinary lamp.

 

“How does ‘waiting and seeing’ sit with you?” Deaton asks.

 

Stiles petulantly knocks over a jar of Smackos.

 

“Clean that up,” Deaton admonishes.

 

Stiles glares.

 

“Clean that up,” the Sheriff adds.

 

“I’m a _dragon_ ,” Stiles insists.

 

Derek grimaces.

 

Stiles cleans it up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

And then, one day after school, the whole pack assembles at the old Hale house. It’s still on the cold side, but the sun is coming through the naked branches in a glittering mess of gold warmth, and Stiles is slumped leisurely over Derek’s lap reading a novel for his Eng Lit unit. Lydia is braiding crisp brown leaves into Alison’s hair, Scott is tousling casually with Isaac, and Erica is sitting on the porch painting her nails. Someone has set up a portable iPod speaker, and for once Derek doesn’t actually find the music choice offensive.

 

It’s cold, and it’s calm, and Derek absent-mindedly runs a hand down the length of Stiles’ back over his shirt, and Stiles _freezes_.

 

Then he slowly turns his head to face Derek, and if Scott could see he would be saying something about the _Exorcist_ , but Derek just stares back, startled, until Stiles pointedly closes his book and says:

 

“ _Do that again_.”

 

Derek flushes up to his ears.

 

“Holy _shit_ , Stilinski,” Erica remarks with awe, but Derek only has eyes for the scrawny boy in his lap whose eyes have flared a little golden and hot, and whose skin seems to ripple a little when Derek rests his hand back down, soaking in the heat blossoming up from Stiles’ skin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

This time Stiles goes to Deaton alone.

 

“When you say, you _liked_ it…” Deaton starts, and then pauses, and then squints.

 

“ _Oh my god_ do you want me to dance down the street singing it?” Stiles demands.

 

“If you think it will help,” Deaton demurs.

 

Stiles smacks a desk calendar onto the floor, and saunters out of the office backwards.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Sheriff returns home from a late night patrol to find the attic ladder has been pulled down and a light glowing from upstairs. Outside it’s flooding rain, and the steady drumming against the roof is making him flashback to the first time he found Stiles up here, staring down at his mother’s treasure before collapsing on the dusty floorboards and kicking the Sheriff’s hopes for a peaceful retirement in the _face_.

 

“Okay, kiddo,” he mutters, and winces as his cold joints protest with each ladder rung.

 

Luckily, Stiles isn’t unconscious this time. He’s backed himself into the corner next to his old tricycle (he rode it once, fell off, busted his knee, and avoided it like the plague ever since) and some of his wife’s old records from the 70s. The attic window is bleeding a cold blue light, and Sheriff looks at his son, and tries to justify the hulking scaled creature with his small little child, who grew out too long in every direction and has been trying to catch up with himself ever since.

 

Stiles notices him as soon as his head pops through the attic latch.

 

“I thought maybe mum might have left a diary or something,” Stiles mutters, “stupid idea, I know, ‘cos you would know about it, and you wouldn't leave it up here to rot.”

 

Definitely not. Claudia’s diary is in a small floral box under the Sheriff’s bed, along with a half-empty bottle of her favorite perfume and a crinkled photo of their wedding day.

 

“I just thought – I mean, I wished – that she’d left me with a _How to Dragon_. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so bad at this, and my back wouldn’t freakin’ _hurt so much_ ,” Stiles struggles in the corner, wrestling with his top, or maybe just his own skin.

 

“I know son,” the Sheriff sighs, “but we never expected her to… sometimes people don’t think ahead like that because we don’t think we _need_ to. And by the time your mum was… really, really sick, I mean, we weren’t thinking of the possibility of you being like her. We were thinking of everything else.”

 

Stiles is silent for a moment.

 

“Did she ever have anything like this? Like the, the sores, or welts, or _whatever_ they are?”

 

“Not that I remember. The only back problem she ever had was from her wings, and even then she was able to--”

 

The Sheriff stops. Stiles stops. The Sheriff bangs his head against the attic floor.

 

“ _Jesus holy Christ_ ,” Stiles yells.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles shows up at Derek’s loft on a Wednesday night, practically soaked to the bone, panting a little from exertion, and looking like he’s just won the lottery. Several lotteries in fact. Several lotteries and a _car_. Stiles’ grins can get pretty scary.

 

“Are you _insane_ ,” Derek begins, but a clammy hand presses against his mouth.

 

“Shh, shut up, oh my god, want to see something _cool_ ,” Stiles hisses, still grinning.

 

Derek’s eyes flicker downwards.

 

“Not _that_ , oh my god, Derek, help me move your lounges.”

 

“Oh,” Derek says, “okay.”

 

So they move all the lounges and tables and sideboards – Lydia got carried away in IKEA, apparently – and then Stiles shuffles Derek aside too, ceremoniously planting him on his favourite sofa before backing up and removing his shirt.

 

“Oh,” Derek says, a little pleased.

 

“Dork,” Stiles flings his shirt at Derek’s head, and then turns around. “Ta da!”

 

Derek jumps to his feet. “Your back! It’s better!”

 

And so it is. All pale skin and pretty moles again, over broad shoulders and gentle sloping shoulder blades, and that dip that leads –

 

“Would you _knock it off_ ,” Stiles protests, flushing, “I’m trying to _ta daa_ here.”

 

“Huh?”

 

And Stiles grins wickedly over his shoulder, says: “ _This isn’t even my final form_.” And suddenly transforms.

 

After the twisting scales and limbs and bones resemble something closer to a dragon than an eldritch horror, Derek uncovers his eyes and gapes.

 

Dragon!Stiles bounces with joy, whacks his head against the teardrop light Lydia insisted on, snaps angrily at it, and then bounces forward, knocking Derek back into the sofa so he can shove his tapered snout into his stomach, and, more importantly, use the recovered space of the loft, to shake out his spidery, still-half formed, but most _definitely_ – wings.

 

“In reflection,” Derek says after an extended pause, “should we be surprised?”

 

“Garble,” Stiles approximately says, but in a loving, excited tone.

 

“Yeah, me too,” Derek agrees, and kisses Stiles on his leathery, sweet-smoke-smelling snout.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles didn’t take it well when the Sheriff put his foot down on actual flying. Literally put his foot down too, on the claw-tip of Stiles’ wings, his hands planted on his hips and his ‘ _no way in hell_ ’ expression firmly in place.

 

“I’m pretty sure we’d have to clear airspace with the US government,” he’d said sarcastically, “and that’s just paperwork I don’t want to be doing, son.”

 

“Come on,” Erica tries half-heartedly, “who will actually notice a… a dragon…” she trails off. “Sorry Stiles, I tried.”

 

“Weak,” Stiles accuses, once he’s changes back and Derek is sympathetically handing him some clothes. “You’re all weak!”

 

“Sorry bro,” Scott says, patting him on the shoulder, “ _I_ believe you can fly. I believe you can touch the sky--”

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Derek mutters, “I was going to use that one.”

 

Even the Sheriff looks a little disappointed.

 

“See if I ever kiss you again,” Stiles points at Derek, like this is somehow _his_ fault.

 

Which turns out to be a lie, actually, since even though Stiles’ wings matured in shape pretty quickly after that, it turns out that he still _really really_ likes a good pat between the shoulder blades from time to time, and Derek is nothing if not an opportunist.

 

Case in point: that exact afternoon, with Stiles sulking next to Derek on the living room mattress and that annoying kitchen light _still_ on, with the Sheriff’s bedroom door _still_ open, and that shotgun staring down at Derek accusingly from the staircase landing.

 

Derek waits, then glances at the back of Stiles’ head, and then reaches out and runs a finger down the length of his spine.

 

“—the _actual worst_ ,” Stiles swears, rolling over to squash Derek in a warm, gangly embrace.

 

Dimly, in the distance, Derek hears the Sherriff’s bedroom door firmly shut.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Real life has been stupid. Sorry for the delay!
> 
> Have some dragon.


End file.
